John Grisham - The Confession

“What was that?” Robbie asked.

Keith was driving, talking on the phone, and suddenly distracted by another seizure. “I’ll call you back,” he said and put the phone down.

“I’m throwing up,” Boyette said, reaching for the door handle. Keith hit the brakes and steered the Subaru onto the shoulder. An 18-wheeler behind him swerved and sounded the horn. They finally came to a stop, and Boyette clutched his seat belt. When he was free, he leaned through the cracked door and began vomiting. Keith got out, walked to the rear bumper, and decided not to watch. Boyette puked for a long time, and when he finally finished, Keith handed him a bottle of water. “I need to lie down,” Boyette said, and crawled into the backseat. “Don’t move the car,” he directed. “I’m still sick.”

Keith walked a few feet away and called his wife.

———

After another noisy bout of gagging and throwing up, Boyette seemed to settle down. He returned to the rear seat, with the right-side door open, his feet hanging out.

“We need to move along, Travis. Slone is not getting any closer.”

“Just a minute, okay? I’m not ready to move.” He was rubbing his temples, and his slick skull seemed ready to crack. Keith watched him for a minute, but felt uncomfortable gawking at such agony. He stepped around the vomit and leaned on the hood of the car.

His phone buzzed. It was Robbie. “What happened?” he asked.

Robbie was seated now, still at the conference table, with most of the crew still there. Carlos was already working on an affidavit. Bonnie had found Boyette’s arrest record in Slone and was trying to determine which lawyer had represented him. Kristi Hinze arrived around 7:30 and soon realized she was missing the excitement. Martha Handler typed furiously, another episode in her evolving story about the execution. Aaron Rey and Fred Pryor roamed around the train station, sipping cup after cup of coffee and nervously watching all doors and windows. Thankfully, the sun was now up and they didn’t really expect trouble. Not at the office, anyway.

“He has these seizures,” Keith said, as an 18-wheeler roared by, its wind blowing his hair. “I guess it’s the tumor, but when they hit, they’re pretty frightening. He’s been throwing up for the past twenty minutes.”

“Is the car moving, Keith?”

“No. We’ll take off in a minute.”

“The minutes are getting by us, Keith. You understand this, right? Donté will be executed at six o’clock tonight.”

“I got that. If you’ll recall, I tried to talk to you yesterday, and you told me to get lost.”

Robbie took a deep breath as he collected the stares from around the table. “Can he hear you right now?”

“No. He’s lying in the backseat, rubbing his head, afraid to move. Me, I’m sitting on the hood, dodging 18-wheelers.”

“Tell us why you believe this guy.”

“Well, let’s see, where do I start? He knows a lot about the crime. He was in Slone when it happened. He’s obviously capable of such violence. He’s dying. There’s no proof against Donté Drumm other than the confession. And Boyette has her senior class ring on a chain around his neck. That’s the best I can do, Robbie. And, I’ll admit, there’s a slight chance this is all a big lie.”

“But you’re helping him jump parole. You’re committing a crime.”

“Don’t remind me, okay? I just talked to my wife and she happened to mention that.”

“How soon can you get here?”

“I don’t know. Three hours, maybe. We’ve stopped twice for coffee because I haven’t slept in three nights. I bought myself a speeding ticket, one written by the slowest trooper in Oklahoma. Now Boyette is puking his guts out, and I’d rather him do that in a ditch and not in my car. I don’t know, Robbie. We’re trying.”

“Hurry up.”

CHAPTER 19

With the sun up and the town anxiously coming to life, the Slone police were on high alert, with holsters unfastened, radios squawking, patrol cars darting up and down the streets, and every officer looking for the next hint of trouble. It was expected at the high school, and for good measure the chief sent half a dozen men there early on Thursday morning. When the students arrived for class, they saw police cars parked near the main entrance, an ominous sign.

All of Slone knew that the black players had boycotted practice on Wednesday and had vowed not to play Friday. There could be no greater insult to a community that loved its football. The fans, so ardent and loyal only a week earlier, now felt betrayed. Feelings were strong; emotions were raw all over Slone. On the white side of town, the bitterness was caused by football, and now the burning of a church. On the black side, it was all about the execution.

As with most violent and sudden conflicts, the precise manner in which the riot began would never be known. In the endless retelling of it, two things became obvious: the black students blamed the white students, and the whites blamed the blacks. The question of time was a bit clearer. Just seconds after the first bell at 8:15, several things happened at once. Smoke bombs were lit in the boys’ restrooms on the first and second floors. Cherry bombs were rolled down the main hallway, exploding like howitzers under the metal lockers. A string of firecrackers went off near the central stairwell, and panic swept the school. Most of the black students walked out of class and mingled in the halls. A brawl erupted in a junior homeroom class when a black hothead and a white hothead exchanged insults and started swinging. Others were quick to take sides and join in. The teacher ran from the room screaming for help. One fight sparked a dozen more. Before long, students were rushing out of the building, running for safety. Some were yelling, “Fire! Fire!” though no flames had been seen. The police called for backups and fire trucks. Firecrackers were popping all over the first and second floors. The smoke grew thicker and thicker as the chaos spread. Near the entryway to the gymnasium, some black kids were ransacking the trophy cases when they were seen by a gang of whites. Another fight broke out, one that spilled into a parking lot next to the gym. The principal stayed in his office and barked nonstop into the PA system. His warnings were ignored and only added to the confusion. At 8:30, he announced that school had been canceled for that day and the next. The police, with reinforcements, eventually settled things down and evacuated Slone High School. There were no fires, only smoke and the acrid smell of cheap explosives. There was some broken glass, clogged toilets, upended lockers, and stolen backpacks, and a soft drink machine was vandalized. Three students—two whites and one black—were taken to the hospital and treated for cuts. There were a lot of cuts and bruises that went unreported. Typical of such a melee, with so many taking part, it was not possible to determine who was causing trouble and who was trying to flee, so no arrests were made at the time.

Many of the older boys, black and white, went home to get their guns.

———

Roberta, Andrea, Cedric, and Marvin were cleared through the security desk at Polunsky’s front building and led by a supervisor to the Visitors’ Room, a process and a walk they had endured many times in the past seven years. And though they had always hated the prison and everything about it, they realized that it would soon be a part of their past. If it meant nothing else, Polunsky was where Donté lived. That would change in a matter of hours.

There are two private rooms used by attorneys in the visiting area. They are slightly wider than the other booths used by visitors, and they are fully enclosed so no guard or prison official, or other inmate or lawyer, can eavesdrop. On his final day, a condemned man is allowed to see his family and friends in one of the attorney’s rooms. The Plexiglas is still there, and all conversations are through black phones on each side of it. No touching.